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The Peloton Vanishes

Up the winding coastal road framed by stark, peaty hills, walks a man in Tinkoff Saxo cycling kit, carrying a pole topped with a cluster of flags. As he makes his way up the incline, the pole flexes and the flags flutter frantically in the wind that's been picking up since morning. The bursts of colour in the gray drizzle commandeer the attention of roadside onlookers. On top is the green, white and orange of the Irish tricolour. Below it, the bright pink of the Giro inscribed "Giro d'Irlanda." And beneath those, a yellow flag with the cryptic "John 3:7".

As I kneel at the side of the road and photograph his journey's progress, a police car slows down beside me. "Is that your car parked over there?" says the officer.

"It's not," I reply, continuing to compose my shot.

"But I think it is," replies he. "The fellows there say 'That girl in pink with the camera just come out of it'. Look if it's your car, you need to come with me."

"It's not my car," I say.

From across the road a group of people watches intently.

Since the early morning, we are on the Antrim Coast between Ballycastle and Cushendall, by the spooky, mist-covered Vanishing Lake, waiting for Stage 2 of the Giro d'Italia. The idea is to get the peloton coming through an unmistakably local landscape. Not the prettiest landscape with the most dramatic coastal views, but one that captures the feeling of what cycling here is really like. Perhaps we do too good a job in that respect. The sprinkles of pink against the otherwise bare, green-gray-brown background only accentuate the surrounding emptiness and surprising lack of festivity. The crowds are thin, the police unfriendly. There is a vague but unmistakable tension in the air. And that's before the drizzle becomes a downpour.

On a grassy bank a cluster of spectators attempts a picnic, now clasping soggy clumps of food under their ponchos.

Others fare better under the canopies of enormous caravans that seem home to entire cycling clubs from nearby counties.

Cyclists - solitary and in groups - parade up and down the car-free road in anticipation.

Until they too are told to clear out. The breakaway is 20 minutes away.

The air grows thick as we wait. We wait for the riders to overwhelm us with the power and energy and colour of their presence, while at the same time worrying that they will not - that it will all be over too quickly, that it will make no difference at all, that nothing - not even the 2-wheel stampede of a magnificent world-famous race - can stir this ancient, tense place.

When the first team cars go by it is a welcome change from the echelons of police vehicles, tow trucks and vans peddling pink t-shirts which no one wants to buy. People begin to shout. They get close to the cars, run after them.

When a Movistar car pulls over to the side of the road, it is politely swarmed. The tanned men inside roll down the windows and speak in bemused tones with thick accents to the crowds who ask rapid-fire questions and seem unable to stop themselves from touching them.

"When is the break-away coming?"

"Ten-eh minoot-ehs."

Ten minutes, ten minutes!

Things happen quickly after that. First we hear sirens and the sounds of a hovering helicopter. Then we see them, in quick procession. The red lead car.

The black motorcycles with pink "Race" decals on their windshields.

And immediately after, a string of 4 skinny riders, pedaling hard up the long incline, as the helicopter circles above.

This seems to go on in slow motion, and at the same time it is a blur. I am not the only one who has no idea who the riders are, as the spectators can be heard referring to them by the colour of their kit. First comes the neon yellow one, with the green one close behind. Then after a gap, comes the red one, followed by the black one. More team cars and motorcycles go by, and in the distance we can see a dark cloud that is the peloton.

What do I expect the peloton to look like as it goes past? I am not exactly sure, but not the way it does. Perhaps I expect it to be long, narrow and orderly - a drawn out echelon of maybe 4 riders abreast, vying for position elegantly. Instead it comes at us in one fat messy clump that takes up the entire width of the road, and looks unexpectedly haphazard.

The riders in the bunch appear not so much tired from physical exertion as weary, even a little bored. Some are chatting and chuckling about something that must have annoyed them, with a shake of the head like "whatcha gonna do." A few are glancing around and actually yawning. One smiles and another winks at me. Which ones are doing all these things? I have no idea. The entire peloton looks to be wearing black with the exception of the refreshingly smurf-hued Astana guys, so those are the only riders I can even identify by team.

I do not get my bearings in time to smile back, or wave, or shout anything encouraging. I am using a big film camera, advancing the knob at a rate I would not have thought possible, clicking away and hoping for the best in the 5 seconds it is all happening.

It is over as soon as it starts.

After the peloton I expect more. Small groups of stragglers, a drawn out procession of some sort. But after a colourful blur of team cars, the road is empty and silent again. It takes me some time to realise it is actually finished.

Before long, people are walking and cycling on the road again. Cars are permitted to leave. And, just like that, off everyone goes, encouraged by the lashing rain. Was I hoping for a street party? Hardly. But the speed at which everything reverts to its pre-Giro state is more than a little anti-climactic. The Giro has been through the Antrim coast and all I got is this soggy hair and water drops on my camera lens.

The peloton has vanished, and with it the spectators, and the scraps of pink, and the bicycles, and the Irish flag on the hilltop. Only the Vanishing Lake itself, near-invisible earlier that morning, now swells and deepens into its brooding ripply-gray existence, nestled contently amidst the soggy peaty glens.

Great report. I wonder what the NI tourist board thought of all that TV coverage showing the riders going through rain and grey clouds, but hey, you don't organise anything at anytime in Norn Iron without assuming it may be raining ;)

We were standing just up the road; about 500m from the summit. It was a remarkable day. Arrived in Ballycastle to sunshine and warmth, rode around Torr to Cushendun and Cushendall as the clouds began to muster and then headed back to Loughareema with a light tailwind, light rain and closed roads. The first downpour hit just as we reached the summit but by that stage it didnt matter as my saddle bag was loaded with food and drink so I was well set for the 2hr wait. It was quite remarkable and, if I'm honest, was topped off by clipping past club cyclists on the decent back to Ballycastle on my Raleigh Randonneur with VO trimmings and Carradice bag.

In a funny tie-in, I rode my first Super Randonneur series in, ahem, '88 on a Raleigh Randonneur which I remember fondly. I got a ding in the top tube that year too, when friends and I bumped into (well, not literally) the then world champion, Stephen Roche, in the Wicklow mountains. He knew someone in the group and stopped to chat. I leaded my bike against a pole in too much haste, but at least I had a ding with a story...

The other part of the tie-in is that the 600k in that SR series took us up to Norn Iron. I'm still shocked that I and my fell forçats de la route had the liathroidi to knock on someone's door at two in the morning (well, the lights were on) when we couldn't find the mountaineering centre near Newcastle, Co. Down (IIRC). This when The Troubles were still spoken of in the present tense. However, the inhabitants didn't bat an eye lid, and were able to direct us down the road to said mountaineering centre as if this were a regular occurrence.

Went to the Famous 1989 Tour de France on a Raleigh Randonneur. Three weeks riding in the alps. Saw the actual bike earlier this year waiting for the Magilligan Point ferry. It has covered tens of thousand of miles - the owner acquiring it in the early nineties and being an old school mile muncher racked up huge miles.

The Portage seems quite similar to the Randonneur (http://www.retrobike.co.uk/forum/download/file.php?id=224998). [Aside: How does one embed an image in a comment?] The former seems to have a fancier engraved fork crown and a curved seatstay bridge, while the latter had brazed-on spoke holders on the chainstay (of which, one of those spokes was needed on my 600k).

Mine has spoke holders on the left chainstay. Its one of the mid 90's models with the bizzare Reynolds 708 tubing. Wonderful bike. Just need a decent handlebar bag and and a set of Grand Bois Cyprès to complete it.

Anyway, it will be living in P'stewart from June. If you see it around the coast then give it a wave.

Oh yeah baby. A newish one will give you a sliver if you get a glass of wine, knowing you can't resist. People buy pizza w/o getting the wine a lot of times, but people getting wine during happy hour have been known to completely cave.

P.S. We have lotsa, lotsa different styles of PIZZA out here. When I was young and trained I could eat an entire stuffed deep dish large Chicago.

Set off on my usual Saturday run to Ballymena, planning to see the Giro coming north there. Enjoyed deserted roads from Ballybogey south, until the police stopped me at the start of the dual carriageway. Not sure how a southward cyclist on the other side of the central reservation might have interfered with the peleton's progress.....

I was close by the finish line of the San Jose-Santa Cruz stage of the 2011 Tour Of California. They zipped by at astonishing speed, nearly a blur, but the whoosh->buzz->rumble->whir of them passing was a really distinctive sound. I'll not soon forget it.

As a Garda said where I was waiting "a minute of cars and 30 seconds of bikes". It wasn't even that more like 2 seconds on a flat road approaching a sharp right turn. All the waiting and it all just tears by in a flash. Loads of anticipation and excitement though around those waiting.

You did well getting those pictures. Good to see spectators too. People did turn out as its a long time such a race was in Ireland. Back in the 80s and 90s there was an annual event called the Nissan Classic, that used begin and end in Dublin city centre. That was on the days of Kelly, Roche and other Irish riders.

Buddy lol ! Kimmage did write interesting stuff that not everyone in the sport agreed with.

Funny the time the TDF came to these shores a few years back, it was overshadowed by revelations and scandal.

Back to the Nissan Classic, I remember going into O'Connell Street on the final Sunday a couple of times. Several sprint laps up and down the street were pretty exciting with crowds looking out for the Irish lads. It felt like having our own Champs Élysées style finish back then.

Friday was spent cycling round the TTT course in Belfast, talking to people, local and so many 'Europeans’. Soaking up the atmosphere at each stop and the crowd on the climb at Stranmillis was electric.

Saturday was on the Ballymoney bypass and the climb up from Carrick-a-rede. Both viewing points were different, Ballymoney was a family affair and the Carrick-a-rede was a definite cycling enthusiast venue and great fun.

Initially i was sceptical of the bikes whizzing past in 30 seconds but then i realised the point of this event wasn't the race but the community, about who you meet and how they feel as much as watching some bikes

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